Food for Thought
by W. Solstice
Summary: (SaiSa). (AU). A cop investigates an unusual case that has been plaguing the local restaurants.


Normally, he wouldn't have taken on a case like this. It seemed obnoxious and immature and hardly worth his time and resources. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Matters that involved things like trafficking, extortion, or fraud. Even some good old-fashioned murder. He was used to matters that involved the darkest corners of political corruption.

And yet, there was something that was entirely too _ballsy_ about this one.

Whoever it was had obviously went through enough trouble to figure out which restaurants were due to be inspected. And also when. The timing had to be just right. So there was at least _some_ semblance of sophistication.

However, the hooligan made no other attempt to hide who he as. Managers described the suspect as often being loud and demanding, ordering much more than was necessary. There were even times when he would show up a little _too_ happy (read: drunk) to be inspecting his own right hand let alone the food itself. Yet he had learned just enough etiquette to seem authentic.

In other words, it was sloppy. And stupid. Overly confident.

It was annoying.

Anything that was just merely illegal, he could deal with. But this was so half-assed it felt like someone just came up with the idea one night over booze and dice. Imagine if the young trouble-maker actually put in some effort.

Instead, here he was again, scoping out his latest five-star victim for some good, free eats.

And here was the detective, wasting his time. At least he could hide the handcuffs in his waiter's apron.

"Good evening, Inspector," he greeted politely with a bright smile, narrowing his eyes into a couple of harmless, happy crescents. "Thank you again for choosing to rate our establishment. Before we start, would you like to try a sample of some of our wine for this evening?" He held out the bottle convincingly. He could have made an excellent door-to-door salesman.

"Maybe later," the fake inspector answered dismissively, his voice rough with eagerness. "I'm starved. Let's just get to the assessments and all that!"

"Ah, of course. Although it is quite a fine bottle; I will have to insist you try some of this at some point," he responded and then began to introduce and run through the three-course menu. It was only when he noticed the ruffian was staring at him a bit oddly did he stop. "Any questions, sir?"

"You're pretty weird for a waiter," the boy announced suspiciously. "You've got real squinty eyes, y'know that?"

Mr. Squinty chuckled easily at the brashness. "We've all got to work with what we're born with, I suppose."

"Yeah? How you suppose you work with that gunpowder residue on your wrist?"

The officer paused for a brief moment, appearing somewhat pleased before letting the facade fade somewhat.

But then the boy did something stupid.

He jumped up and ran away.

And the officer, if it was somehow possible, did something even stupider.

He ran after him.

The chase didn't last long. As athletic as the boy seemed to be, he couldn't outrun the deftness of this wolfish man. The delinquent darted into an alleyway in a last ditch effort to lose him, and the officer couldn't help but roll his eyes. _Really_?

Soon, he was tackled and pinned, face squished against the wall.

"You're pretty fast for an old pig," he growled through his teeth, struggling against the hold on him.

"And you're pretty perceptive for a stupid kid," came the calm response.

However, when the officer made no further move to handcuff him or anything, he suddenly grew wary, feeling those not-so-happy crescents burning into the back of his head.

"Hey, are you gonna arrest me or what?!"

"Quit wasting my time."

"What!?"

"Don't make me catch you doing this again. Find another way to earn your fare."

Suddenly, the bruising grip was released and the young man whirled around angrily, only to watch the retreating back of the waiter-clad cop.

"Use your head, idiot," the older man ordered as he disappeared around the corner, leaving the other in a state of confusion and embarrassment.

"Hey, fuck off!" he yelled rather uselessly, still fuming. Like hell some old, creepy cop was going to tell him what to do. As if he owed _him_ any favors now.

With that, he gruffly took off in the opposite direction.

* * *

It wasn't until a couple weeks later that the officer received an anonymous note on his desk:

_ Where's my free sample, asshole?_

He leaned back and smirked somewhat.

Well, he did insist, after all.

* * *

Author's Notes: Sorry, I had to write more ridiculous shit. (I'm not really that sorry though.)


End file.
